


So the bar is where I go.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Fluff, M/M, Nathan being an invisible but awesome wingman, and also being NOT DEAD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Harold is having trouble with his thesis. Nathan suggests getting laid would help. Harold, against all good reason, takes his advice and goes to a bar.And meets John.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/158816151083/comtessedebussy-redfar-p-oh-man-what-if) post! It was just too much to resist.
> 
> A million thanks to [Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky) for being the wonderful person she is and beta reading this for me. She makes it look so much neater and well structured and wow. Thanks. You're a goddess.

Harold is nursing his drink and wondering why he even bothered coming here. He doesn't particularly enjoy cheap booze, or the loud music. Nor does he enjoy the way people’s eyes are lingering on him. He especially dislikes it when someone asks him if the seat next to him is free, or worse, tries to buy him a drink.

Which, considering the reason he decided to come here in the first place, is odd.

He had been thinking nonstop about numbers and differential equations and trying to beat them into obedience- into making sense- by the sheer force of his will for days, but had failed miserably. So he thought- no, actually, Nathan, the bastard, had urged- that getting laid would help. “ _Think of a different sort of ratios and proportions for once._ ” He had clapped him on his back and left.

Harold had been determined to ignore him, but there was a dull pain behind his eyelids, and muteness in his mind, that told him no matter what he did, he wouldn’t be able to continue with his thesis like this. He was stuck, well and truly. A distraction had definitely been in order.

So here he is, extremely frustrated at himself for constantly declining every forward attempt anyone made, scowling at them until they shrug and leave. This is not how one gets laid. He almost regrets not asking Nathan to come along as a wingman. Almost. As much as he would’ve appreciated the support, he definitely doesn’t regret the lack of jeering.

The sad truth is, Harold’s picky. He doesn’t want any of the men that hit on him. What he wants is to go back to his apartment, and bury his head in his books until they bend to his will. But that is out of the question. So barring that, he just wishes he would stop being so finicky. It is just a casual fuck- a few hours and over, he doesn’t even have to see the person again if he doesn’t want to. It’s not like he is committing to marrying the guy!

A quiet clearing of throat startles him, amazed he could even hear it in the noise around him. He turns slightly, ready to look up at whoever it is and snap something rude. Instead his eyes land on one of the most gorgeous men he has ever seen. Tall and dark, clad in a dark suit emphasizing the perfectly sculpted body underneath, and standing close enough to be comfortably inside Harold’s personal space. Strangely, Harold realizes he doesn’t mind.

A small cough, and he realizes he has been staring. Quickly, he looks away from the steel gray eyes, amusement evident in them, but that doesn’t really help because his gaze lands on the dull pink lips, tilted in a small smile, and Harold wants to kiss them, find out if they are as soft as they look. Maybe he is drunker than he had realized, even though this is just his second drink.

The said lips move, and Harold has enough brain cells remaining that he catches the words. “I am John,” the dashing man is saying and Harold notices he extends his hand, patiently waiting for Harold to get the memo and shake it.

Harold raises his own hand, and is pleasantly surprised by the strength of the grip, the calloused long fingers firmly holding his. There is something to be said about a man who knows how to shake a hand well. He blames that, when he nods yes to the next question, when he had refused so many of the men before. “Is the seat empty?”

It’s cliché. It’s very typical. And yet, there is something like a quiet promise in that voice of John's, something that makes Harold want to be reckless. He turns back around and stares at his drink, suddenly nervous, because even though he came here for a pull, he didn’t really expect to go through with it. He didn’t really expect to want it!

“I didn’t catch your name?” There it is, the slight tease, something that comes with long familiarity, but feels _right_ on John’s tongue.

“Harold.” He finds himself replying. He was planning to make up a fake name, but Harold is a common enough name to be forgettable. John doesn’t ask for the last name, neither does he offer his own.

Harold picks up his drink and takes a long gulp, mostly so he would have something to do, other than to gape at the man sitting next to him. When he puts the empty glass down and turns around, John is sitting there, his body’s hard lines made graceful by his black suit, the rough features of his face softened by a smile. He is looking at Harold like _Harold_ is something beautiful, and though he knows how to decipher a complex code while half asleep, he doesn’t really know how to deal with this. He has never been good at human interaction.

“So Harold,” the man says. He is probably one of those rare combinations who are as intelligent as they are good looking, and isn’t that just unfair. “What brings you here?”

Or maybe not.

“What do you think?” Harold scoffs, looking around him, gesturing. If he sounds a little self-deprecating, well, nobody can blame him.

“Well,” Harold meant his question to be rhetorical, but John obviously took it as opportunity to say, “It looks like you’re a genius in need of a distraction.”

Harold’s stomach flips, his heart skips a beat. He feels like a teenager all over again. John’s voice is a deep rumble, rough, and the suggestion in it breathtaking. There is a knowing look in his eyes, almost expectant, the intensity in his gaze makes Harold want to shy away from it. Or maybe drown in it.

“What,” Harold swallows, “may I need distraction from in your opinion, John?”

John visibly shivers when he takes his name- and there is a heady power in that too, in seeing an attractive man be affected by you. John bends closer until Harold can feel the warmth emanating from his body, and replies, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

Someone who looks like he stepped out of a fashion magazine, having clever sharp eyes and a voice that’s whiskey rough, seems so genuinely interested in what Harold has to say, that he wonders if he is dreaming. But no. Even in his wildest dreams he could not have imagined this. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to someone like him.

Except apparently it is happening now. He doesn’t know how to react, so he stops thinking. Moves forward a bit, bending his head conspiratorially and whispers, “What do you know about differential equations?”

John’s lips quirk, there is intrigue in his eyes, like he has found a mystery he wants to unravel. Harold can’t believe how much he is enjoying being the focus of this man’s attention. He has always felt uncomfortable being noticed, always preferred to hide from spot light. But John’s intense gaze feels like sunlight and he is thriving.

“Not much.” John stage whispers too, caught up in the act, and Harold raises his eyebrow, “But I would love to know more about them.”

His eyebrows climb higher, disbelief written in it. He expects John to argue, to defend his lie, but he only throws his head back to laugh. Then he returns, his face closer than before, and replies, the movement of his lips hypnotic, and his voice weaving a deadly spell. “Alright, I admit that wasn’t technically the truth. What I would love is, hearing you talk about them, as I peel you out of this fine suit, and make you forget all about them.”

Harold would never own up to the whimper that left his throat, but the smug look on John’s face when he moves back after his little speech is testament to the fact that he heard it. Harold would feel more embarrassed about it, if he could summon any thought other than the image John’s words had created.

He clears his throat, because he still has some sense of dignity.

“What makes you think I would allow that?” Harold challenges, but it sounds weak even to him.

“Oh you will.” John sounds so self-satisfied that Harold wants to refuse out of spite, but then his voice gentles, “You want this. I told you, you look like you’re in need of a distraction. Something that would make the noise in your brain quiet for a while. And I am offering.”

“What’s in it for you?” Harold can’t help asking.

“I have a certain weakness for nerdy men,” John teases, and Harold is about to be offended when he adds, “And it helps that you’re gorgeous.”

Harold sputters, trying to find the lie, but John’s body language is relaxed. He wasn’t even trying for flattery. It’s obvious that he actually believes what he just said. Harold finds himself blushing and speechless, both of which are rare for him.

John is now leaning away, sitting sprawled on his stool at the bar counter, his legs spread and his body an open invitation to ogle. Which Harold doesn’t do. Thank you very much.

What he does instead is to consider the request, as his gaze travels up and down the lean muscles barely hidden by the fabric of the suit. He was looking for this. John is offering, and miraculously, Harold finds himself attracted and interested. Why should he deny himself?

Mind made up, he nods, and tries not to feel giddy at the relief on John’s face, the triumph. He never considered himself a conquest, but it feels good to be wanted.

Halfway out of the bar, he realizes he had not even thought of his thesis ever since he first looked at John. Maybe Nathan had been right after all.

~~

John kisses like he talks. With a quiet intensity, and a depth that shakes Harold to his core. He teases and coaxes, whisper soft one instant, rough and overwhelming the next, until Harold is panting against the wall, the need for oxygen a distant thought in his mind, because who needs to breathe when they can kiss John, and be kissed by him.

When John undresses Harold, it’s with care that would seem odd on anyone who was built like him, but seems to be a part of his charm. A certain delicacy in his touches, reverent; Harold realizes that here is the man, who is aware of his ability to harm, and knows how to do the opposite. The gentleness in his caresses is in marked contrast to the hunger in his gaze, and Harold is torn between wanting both, wanting it slow and gentle, and rough and desperate, wanting more, wanting everything.

Laying him down on the bed, John gently pushes inside him, making space for himself, finding give where there was none. Harold’s ever calculating mind stops thinking about his thesis and his project all, too caught up in memorizing the expressions on John’s face, the flex of his muscle. John’s body is a work of art, every single muscle honed for its use, perfected, and the man knows how to use them; how to make them work exactly the way he wants. He gets caught up in running his hand over every inch of skin he can, appreciating the soft skin over the hard sinews; gets caught up in the pleasure John is giving him, pleasure that demands all of his attention until he can’t even think about that anymore.

He comes with a gasp of John’s name, and when he hears his own name echoed back, on a desperate whimper, he is extraordinarily glad for not having had the presence of mind to give a fake name. His name on John’s tongue as he comes might be the best sound he has ever heard.

John collapses next to him in bed, while Harold stares at the ceiling in a daze, his insides turned to jelly. He hears a chuckle, and then John is nuzzling into his shoulder, a smile on his lips where they are pressed to his skin.

“I thought I was going to get educated in certain mathematical concepts,” John says, and frankly, Harold is too spent to make sense of that odd comment. He makes a noncommittal noise that makes John laugh again.

“That good, huh?” he says, and Harold starts to turn towards him, to see his face and try and figure out what he means.

“Shhh,” John cajoles, turning him the other way and wrapping himself around him, “go to sleep,” he whispers in his ear.

It sounds like a good idea, so Harold complies.

~~

When he opens his eyes, it’s not yet light outside the windows. He feels wide awake though, startlingly so. He smiles into the pillow, enjoying weight of the body draped over him. It might have been stifling, but instead it is really comfortable, and Harold is tempted to go back to sleep.

But he had woken up because of a reason.

Carefully, he disentangles himself, and gets off the bed. Harold squints for his glasses and finds them lying carefully folded on the side table, and he smiles at the memory of John sliding them off last night. Glancing one more time at the warm and inviting figure on the bed, he shakes his head in fondness. The man is gentler than he has any right to be. Then he looks around for his clothes and pulls his pants on, foregoing any morning routines. There’s a study desk in the corner, and Harold pulls out the chair, then finds a pen and a stack of papers, getting to work.

Sex always provides certain clarity to Harold’s thoughts, so much so that he wonders why he doesn’t do this sort of thing more often. Everything unnecessary is quiet inside his mind, only the numbers are talking, and for once this week, they make sense. He had woken up with an epiphany and he wants to put it down on paper before it becomes a jumbled mess again.

He gets lost in his work, barely aware of John waking up. He feels a prickling sensation at the back of his neck which tells him he is being watched, but resolutely ignores it in favor of scribbling on the paper, immersing himself in the code. Sometime later he hears the shower running, and then footsteps leaving the room, and the sound of pots and pans in the kitchen. All of that barely makes tiny dents in his concentration.

When he writes down the last equation, putting his pen down, he breathes a sigh of relief. There, the problem that he wasn’t able to solve in weeks, done in just a couple of hours. He stretches his arms above his head, popping his back. Outside, the soft light of morning is shining through the windows.

The smell of breakfast being cooked assaults his senses, and he realizes how absolutely starving he is. He gets up, and wanders into the washroom, smiling when he finds a new unopened toothbrush on the sink counter. After freshening up, he finds his shirt lying on the floor, and wears it unbuttoned, padding into the living room barefoot.  John is standing behind the stove, wearing jeans and an apron. He grins when he sees Harold.

“Good morning, Harold. Make yourself comfortable.”

He gestures towards the kitchen counter, where a plate of pancakes is ready. Harold sits down on the plastic stool, and a few minutes later John puts his own plate opposite to his, and brings two cups.

Harold opens his mouth to say, “I’m afraid I don’t…” but shuts up when he sees his drink.

He looks up at John in surprise, mouthing a “how?”

John smiles, “you didn’t look like a coffee person.”

Harold looks at the cup of green tea in front of him, and is awed again by how observant John is. He takes a sip, eagerly, and moans at the taste of perfectly brewed tea.

“Thank you,” he says, sincere.

“You’re welcome.”

Because of how hungry he is, Harold digs into the breakfast and it’s not until he is halfway through it that he notices that John has not touched his food. Instead, he is sitting lazily, staring at Harold with the most self-satisfied expression any man has ever worn. Harold takes offence to that, not the least bit because it’s a good look on the man.

“There’s no need to look so smug, John.” Harold’s fork has paused in the air, his eyebrows raised. He tries to imbue some disdain in his voice, but by the widening smile on John’s face, he guesses that he probably managed amusement instead. Oh well.

“A man is allowed to be happy about a job well done.” John leans back into his chair, smug.

Harold purses his lips for a moment, but finds he has nothing to argue with. John evidently knows he is exceptionally good in bed, and for good reason. He shrugs, getting back to eating. Bed isn’t the only place John has remarkable skills in.

John finally starts eating too. “So I take it, you managed to get over the problem?” he asks while taking a sip of his coffee.

“Problem?”

“The one that brought you to the bar.” John clarifies.

“Oh,” Harold ducks his head, embarrassed. He hadn’t known he was so transparent. But then, John’s observation skills were formidable. He had already concluded that. “Yes.” He accepts.

“I am glad.” What’s surprising is, Harold is sure that it’s not just words. John really is glad for him, and that makes Harold feel wrong footed.

Sooner than he would like, they are done with breakfast. Harold has a class at ten, and there is no reason to dawdle. He goes to the bedroom to collect his stuff, his face reddening at the strewn clothes and the rumpled bedsheets, remembering the activities of last night. John clears his throat, leaning in the doorway, and Harold flushes harder, quickly gathering his things. He grabs the pile of notes he made early morning, wanting to transfer them into his computer before the class.

When he is done, wearing his wrinkled clothes from last night, smoothed enough to be able to rush back to his own place without raised eyebrows, he hesitates. Suddenly, it’s clear to him why he doesn’t do this more often. The casual sex.

Because it’s bloody impossible for him to stay casual, that’s why. Even right now, as he looks up into the amused eyes of John, he wants a reason to linger; to stay; and worse, to come back and see him again. He wants to mentally slap himself. Apparent he hasn’t learned the meaning of one night stand yet.

“I’m gonna…” Harold gestures, one handed, the other is holding the papers. “Just… go then.”

“Goodbye Harold.” John says, and Harold nods, taking a step to go. “I enjoyed last night.” John adds. The words are typical, expected even. But the tone makes Harold pause.

“Yeah?” he waits, sure that there is more to it.

“And,” John crowds into his space, murmuring, and “if I am not wrong you did too.”

“I did.” Harold agrees, finding no reason to deny the truth.

“And it also helped with whatever obstacle you had in your studies. Right?”

“Yes.” He has no idea what John is getting at.

“So…”

“So?” He is honestly confused.

John gently grabs his hand, turning it palm up. And then, picks up a pen from the table and writes something on Harold’s skin. When he lets go, Harold sees there are a string of numbers written. He stares up at John with something embarrassingly close to hope.

“My number,” he answers the unspoken question, “in case you ever have need of a… distraction, again.” He rubs the back of his neck in obvious embarrassment.

Harold is struck speechless for a few moments, and then, he grabs John and pulls him towards himself to kiss him soundly.

“Yes,” he says, breathless, and it sounds like an admission to something he can’t even name.

“See you around, Harold.” John smiles, his face so close that it blurs.

It’s not a goodbye, and Harold finds himself stupidly pleased by that. On the way to his apartment, he adds the number scribbled on his hand to his phone directory with a giddy excitement.

 _‘Harold Wren_.’ He texts once he is home. He isn’t sure what made him want to give the last name, but he irrationally wants John to know that. Wants him to be able to find Harold if he ever wanted.

Almost instantly, he gets a reply. ‘ _Reese ☻’_ it says. Harold refuses to feel happy like a teenager because of this small exchange.

He is late to the class. In his defense, he has had a breakthrough and he needed to milk the moment of clarity as much as he could. He steadfastly ignores the leer Nathan sends him when he sees him, but nothing can subdue the warm glow in his chest, and the lingering smile on his lips.

He is feeling charitable though, so maybe he will help Nathan with his thesis. As a good friend. Not at all because he is grateful.

His phone vibrates, and even though there is no reason to expect it might be John- they parted merely a couple of hours ago- he feels compelled to open it under the table, just in case. It’s Nathan.

_‘Good night?’_

_‘Shut up.’_ He texts back. And then, a few seconds later. ‘ _Yes.’_

He can hear Nathan snigger across the room. It’s a testament to how blissful he is that he can’t even bring himself to mind.

 

* * *

 

[Merionees](https://merionees.tumblr.com/) made **[THIS](https://merionees.tumblr.com/post/159452281608/good-morning-harold-make-yourself)** wonderful art for my fic and I will forever be in her debt!

 


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